The Sword and The Swan (13 page)

"Why not wait until after the melee?"

For a moment Eustace could not hide the contempt in his face. He could suggest such an action to another, but he knew with a mixture of shame and pride that he could never carry it out himself. Had he been able to challenge Rannulf personally, he would have met him when he was fresh and fought honestly to see who was the better man.

"It might continue until dark," Eustace replied, masking his feelings as best he could because he knew he could not back out of the arrangement. "You would then lose by default. Do you think they will stop the battle because you appear to answer a challenge? Come when the last course is run, but before Tefli has a chance to refresh himself. Remember, after the battle is done, do not approach me. Make your claim and let me work in my own way to seek our ends."

Lady Catherine lifted herself cautiously on her elbow and pulled the blue bed-curtains aside so that the light of the night candle would penetrate the darkness. In the faint and fitful gleam she stared down at her sleeping husband. Relaxed, he looked more than ever like Richard, because the brown curls tumbled over his forehead and softened the hard planes of cheekbones and beaked nose.

Catherine pulled the feather quilt upward to cover a bared shoulder, and Rannulf sighed softly and reached out for her. She presented an arm to his groping hand, not wishing him to wake; he did wake these last few nights if he could not find her in the bed beside him. Nonetheless, he had not offered a word of apology since their quarrel and he avoided any but the most necessary conversation.

Rannulf released her and turned again, pushing the covers off his arms. His hair now came more directly into the candlelight and Catherine saw with a contracting heart how much gray sprinkled the brown. Sections of flesh knotted into ugly scars from past wounds picked up the fitful gleam. Catherine made a little sound between a gasp and a sob and released the curtains hastily, gripped for the first time with knowledge of what the next day would bring.

Neither her first husband nor her father had been fighting men; both had left that to vassals and men-at-arms. Now Catherine had time to regret the disappointment she had felt for their bookish, unmasculine ways. Now she could blame herself for the many prayers she had offered that her men might be of stiffer fiber. Now that her prayers had been answered, she knew she had been punished for her presumption. Catherine stole quietly from the bed to kneel at her
prie-dieu
.

Rannulf's hand moved the bed curtain infinitesimally and let it go again. Once more she was on her knees, but for whom did she pray? Catherine returned to the bed and pressed her chilled body against her husband, who did not appear to have stirred at all. Rannulf struggled to keep his breathing in the smooth rhythm of sleep. Could even a woman be so deceitful as to pray for one man and cling to another?

Whatever Catherine's fears, she could not forbear a healthy mixture of pride with them, for Rannulf showed no qualms at all. He had, to the best of her knowledge, slept quietly through the night, and he woke in the morning at his usual time and in his usual way. He was no quicker or slower in washing or eating; he gave no special instructions to anyone. Catherine had to think twice to assure herself that this really was the day of the tourney and that Rannulf was not merely going out to hunt or to render his normal court attendance.

At first she tried to match his sangfroid, but minute by minute her calm slipped away. By the time Rannulf was ready to dress, she had given up all pretense of casualness and she sent away the servants so that she could attend him herself. Rannulf accepted shirt,
chausses
and tunic from his wife's hands without comment. He knew very well that her behavior was odd because she had never personally helped him to dress before.

"You know where you are to sit," he burst out suddenly, unable to bear the silence between them any longer.

"Yes, my lord."

"You may be asked to answer some questions in public. Do not act the fool. Hold up your head and answer readily and clearly."

Catherine's pride pricked her. "What shall I say, my lord?" she asked caustically.

There was a rather long pause. Through the fringe of her lashes, Catherine could see Rannulf's rigid countenance. No expression stirred it, but he closed his eyes suddenly as if to hide some inner pain.

"Say what is in your heart," he replied harshly, and, after another pause, short this time, he added flatly, "I hope you have told Richard nothing of this. He is not to come."

Catherine was holding her husband's cross garters in her hands. She sank to her knees to put them on, grateful for the excuse to hide her suddenly brimming eyes and trembling hands. There was only one reason to keep Richard away; Rannulf did not want his son to be a witness if he should be hurt or killed. Catherine's excuse for concealment was short-lived, however. Before she had looped the first garter around his leg, Rannulf reached down and dragged her roughly to her feet.

"Get up," he snarled. "Have we no servants that you must kneel on the floor to dress me?"

The rejection of her service, the only tenderness she could show him, destroyed the remnant of Catherine's self control. She dropped the garters and sobbed aloud.

"Are you a woman or a watering pot?" Rannulf roared. "Every time I see you or speak to you, streams pour from your eyes."

Stung, Catherine whirled to face him, dashing the tears from her cheeks. "One thing you may be sure of," she spat, "I will weep no more for you."

Waiting with unusual patience to lift Catherine to the saddle, Rannulf was not at all ill-pleased. If she wept for him, then she prayed for him also. Good enough. Possibly she was rather cross with him just now … Rannulf smiled. How beautiful Catherine was when her face flushed with anger. Well, she would forgive him when he gave her the tourney gauds.

For the first time in his life, Rannulf approved of the changing fashions that had introduced the practice of giving jewelry as tourney prizes. Previously he had resented it. If he won, he had nothing to do with his prize but throw it into the jewel chest. Now he could give it to Catherine and watch her blush with pleasure and hear her murmur "thank you" in that sweet, soft voice. He felt strong and certain; Leicester's warning was a piece of overcautious nonsense.

With all his casualness, Rannulf was in very good time, early enough so that he and Catherine could stop and hear Mass at a church on the way and still arrive at the field before the heralds were done urging the late sleepers to hurry and make ready.

A faint flush brightened Rannulf's complexion as he rode with his wife toward the lodges. He had not sought it and it could not increase his honor, but it would be pleasant to be earl of Soke. Stephen came across the barrier to clasp Rannulf's hand.

"They have all come," he said, gesturing with a jerk of his head, "except for a few of the very minor knights. If you make this a good day's work, you will have no further trouble with them."

Rannulf glanced over toward the raised dais draped in crimson cloth upon which the king would display him to his new vassals. The sun glittered on the gold-thread embroidery as the slight breeze stirred the drapery, and the red made a fine backdrop for the varicolored surcoats of the men who stood before the platform.

The vassals of Soke stood grouped together to the right of the dais. To the left stood the vassals who held keeps and manors of Rannulf's other properties. These too had to acknowledge him as earl of Soke and repeat their homage to him under that name, lest they revoke their fealty on the technicality that they had sworn to Sir Rannulf of Sleaford, not to the earl of Soke. Probably that was not necessary; Rannulf's men appreciated their overlord's qualities, but it was a good thing to repeat the oath of homage as often as possible.

"Is Osborn with them?"

Stephen frowned. "I have not seen him."

"No more than I expected." Rannulf laughed harshly. "He has no stomach to fight, only to spread foul rumors."

The king shook his head. "I hope you are right, but I would guard myself carefully." There was a pause while both men surveyed the filling grounds, and finally Stephen nodded. "Let your squire take your horse to the lists. The lords, as far as I can see, are assembled. Let us go."

When necessary, Stephen of Blois had great dignity and a truly regal appearance. It was these, together with his undoubted good nature and strong right arm, which had cozened the lords of England into believing he would make a good king. He now mounted the dais, a handsome and impressive figure magnificently clothed in blue, a jeweled circlet adorning his burnished helmet and a cloak of royal purple trimmed with ermine thrown back over his shoulders.

The heralds blew their trumpets, calling the field of folk to attention, and the nobles attendant upon the king drew closer to act as witnesses of the proceedings. From the lodges, the women watched, Catherine torn among pride, fear, and resentment and Maud deeply troubled.

Stephen spoke well, praising Sir Rannulf's justice, strength, and loyalty, giving his reasons for his choice of their new suzerain to the vassals of Soke.

On the dais, a little to Stephen's right, Rannulf listened to his king, his eyes filled with bitterness. If Stephen were what he sounded like it would be a happy land. His glance ranged past his own vassals to the nobles witnessing the investiture. Leicester: was he about to change his coat? Hereford, Cornwall, Gloucester: a tight-knit group of hard and fast rebels, but among them the seeds of an idea that called to him. Chester, Lincoln, Peverel, Shrewsbury: men who cared for nothing but their own aggrandizement and riches, the curse of the kingdom. Warwick, Northampton: men like himself, loyal to the king, but unlike himself seemingly blind to Stephen's total inadequacy.

He shook himself free of his notions, mentally damning Hereford who had, by his insistent talk, put the ideas into his head, as Stephen called upon him to kneel. Automatically raising his hands to grip the king's, he responded as automatically with the standard oath of homage. He meant it and would keep it, but Stephen's reply, just as standard, rang hollow in his ears.

". . . will guarantee to you the lands held of us, to you and to your heirs against every creature with all our power, to hold these lands in peace and quiet."

A rush of unequaled bitterness filled Rannulf so that he nearly jerked his hands away, nearly turned his face so that he would not receive Stephen's kiss of peace upon his lips. What guarantee could Stephen offer to any man of anything? What power had Stephen? What peace and quiet had any man in the nation since he had become king?

Stephen felt the incipient movement and tightened his grip painfully; Rannulf relaxed and accepted the kiss. It was the barons' fault more than the king's. If they were not such greedy boars, if they were content to keep what they had and oversee their vassals, if they were willing to support the king without bribes and presents, the rebellion could have been put down completely at any time. If the barons did their duty, the king would be adequate, a pleasant figurehead for a smoothly running feudal state.

Having conquered his brief revulsion, Rannulf took the oath of fealty on the holy relics held out to him without further qualms and received from Stephen's own hands the lance bearing the gonfalon with the arms of Soke which was the symbol of his investiture as earl.

The use of arms was a new fashion just coming into real popularity, although many men had used colors and symbols to identify themselves in tourney and battle for a long time. It was another of the new fashions of which Rannulf approved heartily, and he looked with pleasure at the gold waterfowl on a green ground, thinking that it could easily be added to his own dagger and chevrons.

The king's part was all but finished. He stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with his vassal now as if to give physical evidence of his intention to support Rannulf. "Vassals of Rannulf of Sleaford, will you do your lord homage as earl of Soke?"

"Fiat! Fiat!" roared the group to the left with honest enthusiasm. The higher their lord climbed, the greater their own importance.

"Vassals of Soke, will you have Sir Rannulf of Sleaford, husband of the only child of your late lord, as your present earl and undoubted suzerain?"

Momentarily there was a tense silence. Everyone knew that the testing of Sir Rannulf had been arranged with his concurrence, but it would be ill for those who stood out if he chose to take it ill. Even the men who were of Osborn's party originally were no longer so eager to oppose Rannulf. In a week at court they had learned much about the new earl, and no man of the group wished to bring his wrath or his power down upon their heads. Nonetheless the arrangement had been made.

Sir Giles cleared his throat. "We hear your words, sire, and we know that Rannulf of Sleaford is a loyal vassal to you, but we are men who wish to be led by a man. Let Sir Rannulf prove with his body that he is worthy of our loyalty."

"Sir Rannulf," Stephen said formally, "do you accept this challenge?"

"Bring forth my shield," Rannulf called in his harsh voice. "Let him who dares prove me touch it."

The triangular, concave shield, bossed and bound in shining brass, was hung upon a post while the squires brought forward the destriers for the knights to mount. Slowly, led by Sir Giles, five of the vassals filed by, touching the shield with the butts of their spears. The king's herald pretended to take down the names although he already had a list. Of the men who appeared, none was Sir Herbert Osborn, however, and Rannulf, having examined the list, spoke quickly to the herald. The trumpets were blown again.

"My lords all," the herald called. "One of the vassals of the late earl of Soke is said to have spread infamy and spoken dishonor of the present earl. Sir Herbert Osborn, you are hereby appelled by Lord Rannulf, earl of Soke, to make good upon his body your words before the sun has set or acknowledge them as foul slanders."

The cry was repeated over the field by the other heralds, but there was no reply. Rannulf knew Sir Herbert had been absent earlier, but he had hoped he would appear. He preferred, in spite of what Leicester said, to fight it out man to man instead of having to attack Osborn's keep and fight what amounted to a war against him. It was never profitable to war against one's own vassals because the land always suffered and, win or lose, the suzerain always lost by the damage to the property.